


Won't You Lay Your Hands On Me?

by ladypigswagon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:37:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1447105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypigswagon/pseuds/ladypigswagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The weeks after the nogitsune incident are strangely quiet.  It seems that Beacon Hills has returned to some kind of equilibrium, no supernatural creatures but instead everyone is catching up on the amount of work they need to complete before the end of the year. Perhaps quiet is the wrong word, but there is defiantly no life threatening situations for Stiles to throw himself into; something he’s actually grateful for, because he’s up to his ears in essays and simply cannot be asked to research anything beyond the hidden meanings in Of Mice and Men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Won't You Lay Your Hands On Me?

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 3B but I'm ignoring the fact that Kate Argent is back because she's a horrible woman and I hate her. I want her to stay dead, is that too much to ask. First teen wolf vic, be gentle with me. I borrowed the Ekek from the Philippines. Interesting mythology.

The weeks after the nogitsune incident are strangely quiet. It seems that Beacon Hills has returned to some kind of equilibrium, no supernatural creatures but instead everyone is catching up on the amount of work they need to complete before the end of the year. Perhaps quiet is the wrong word, but there is defiantly no life threatening situations for Stiles to throw himself into; something he’s actually grateful for, because he’s up to his ears in essays and simply cannot be asked to research anything beyond the hidden meanings in Of Mice and Men. Instead of police reports and bestiary photocopies, Stiles’ walls are covered in notes from all his classes, each color coordinated thanks to the help of colorful fine-liners and an overenthusiasm for highlighters. 

Pack ‘bonding time’ has been replaced with Pack ‘study time’ which basically translates to everyone crowding in Derek’s loft, doing past paper questions, discussing ideas or in Stiles case avoiding any actual writing by highlighting the textbook. Lydia is breezing through the whole ordeal thanks to her natural ability to understand everything ever. Stiles would grumble more about this except that he shares the ability; he just needs to focus. The argument ‘I can focus in exam conditions’ is wearing on everyone’s patience and so Scott pulls rank on Stiles, (damn True Alpha) and get Derek to oversee Stiles revision. This is mostly Derek sitting across from Stiles, glowering at him whilst he writes essay after essay, paper after paper. It’s highly irritating when Peter drops by to lurk in the shadows and make flippant remarks about their intelligence. Stiles is so close to spiking Peters’ tea with wolfsbane at this point. 

What’s worse is that Peter seems personally invested in annoying Stiles. He crowds around Stiles, loping around like a overgrown bat, constantly looking over Stiles shoulder. His comments may be clever and insightful but Stiles wishes that Peter would shove them up his ass. Not that Stiles is looking at his ass. Stupid creeper wolf and his tight jeans. That’s the real issue here. 

 

Exams come around and are over in the blink of an eye. Then it’s summer and all hell breaks loose.

 

“How considerate of the supernatural entities to wait until schools over before they start murdering people,” Stiles comments through a mouth full of meal replacement bar, knowing that tonight is going to be long, “It’s touching how they put education first.” Scott rolls his eyes but Kira chuckles softly, so Stiles counts that as a win. Everyone is crowded round Derek’s table, research splayed out across it. 

“Ekek are bird-like winged-humans who search for victims at night. They thirst for flesh and blood. Similar to the Greek myth Harpy,” Lydia reads aloud, cutting off all discussions, “They can turn into huge bats or birds, go after pregnant women and can fool people into thinking they are further away then they actually are.”

“Disgusting,” Kira whispers and shudders. Scott nods in agreement while Isaac tries his best to refrain from gagging. 

“How do we kill it?” Derek asks, blunt and to the point as usual. 

“No idea,” Lydia replies, “The bestiary was sadly lacking in helpful information and Stiles’ Internet research hit dead ends.” Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles who glares back because he’ll be damned if he’s going to take crap from Derek now. 

“I say we rip them apart,” Peter interjects from his position on high (the spiral staircase). Scott tilts his head and puts on his lost confused puppy face. Lydia shrugs nonchalantly, because she’s not going to be getting her hands dirty. Isaac and Derek exchange pointed looks before turning their attention to Scott. He’s the alpha; it’s ultimately his decision.  
  
"Looks like our only option,” Scott says but he’s not looking pleased about it.

“Time to make a plan,” Stiles says, rubbing his hands together because after the alpha pack debacle, he’s back to being the man with a plan. Or so he hopes.

Stiles’ didn’t think it was possible to ache this much. He’s 90% sure that something is broken or at least severely bruised. Being rammed into a tree will do that for you. The initial joy of managing to fend for himself and give the Ekek a bloody nose (bill whatever) was short-lived when the stupid thing slammed him into the tree and tried to eat his face. Stiles’ will never live down the shame of being saved by Peter, who happened to be in the general vicinity.

“You know Stiles,” Peter had said, as he helped Stiles into his jeep, “The damsel in distress act is most unbecoming and frankly cliché.” Stiles hadn’t dignified that with a response, instead driving home to wallow in self-pity and possibly an ice bath.  


Stiles buries his face in his pillow, hoping to fall asleep and never wake up. His brain is focused solely on reminding him of how much pain he is in, so when someone drops into his bedroom through the window, the thought is acknowledged but not actually processed. 

“Your room remains a complete tip even without the police reports. Is cleaning really beyond your reach Stiles?” Stiles would know that voice anywhere. Slick like oil but soft like velvet. Sharp and vicious but could possibly narrate a wildlife documentary, if that documentary was about wolves and featured lots of maiming and killing. Peter –back-from-the-dead-Hale. Stiles grunts and flips Peter off. He refuses to put up with creeper wolf now. Its shameful enough that Stiles had to be saved by the undead creep, he’s not dealing with the arrogant dick until he’s rested or at least in less pain.  


“Always so eloquent Stiles,” Peter says. The bed dips. Oh God, he’s sitting next to me Stiles thinks. Its more flesh and blood than he can stand. Emphasis on blood at this point because Stiles knows that his t-shirt is covered in it. That’s going to stain badly and then he’ll have to destroy the evidence, which will involve burning everything. Such is the life of Stiles Stilinski. He wants to punch Peter for making this his life even though technically it isn’t his fault, he was the reactant and catalyst, and Stiles is just a by-product. Scott was the main product and Stiles must really be tired because he’s making chemistry analogies at some god-awful hour of the morning. It’s only after this that Stiles processes that Peter is touching his wrist, draining his pain.

Stiles opens one eye, focuses on the black veins in Peters’ arm. It’s oddly beautiful in a twisted way. Peter exhales loudly.

“Went through the wars Stiles,” Peter comments and then lies down next to Stiles like he has a right. Stiles rolls onto his side to confront Peter but instead it looks like he’s giving Peter more space. Peter is greedy with the space he’s being unwillingly allocated, stretching out, consuming the area.

“Dude what are you doing?”  


"Scott McCall, our beloved alpha, instructed me to check up on you while he and Derek deal with the dead body. I didn’t volunteer in case you were wondering,” Peter replies, turning to face Stiles. It makes the situation weirdly intimate. Peter is kissing distance away. Not that Stiles is planning to kiss him. Sure he’s thought about it because Peter is hot and wear body-hugging V-necks, which must be illegal. Or at least publicly indecent. Peter may or may not have turned up in a couple of sexual fantasies but that’s a story best left alone and anyway it’s not like Peter would ever be interested in a skinny recently possessed teenager. Peter probably prefers leggy blondes with quick wit and curves. Actually Peter probably prefers nothing and runs about the night devouring animals and wayward children. The idea of him having sex with anyone is frankly a foreign concept despite Stiles wanting to ride Peter’s cock. 

“Are you going to stare at me all night Stiles?” Peter asks. Stiles becomes aware that their legs have somehow intertwined. When did that happen? 

“What?” Stiles splutters, blushing a vivid shade of crimson.

“This color suits you,” Peter whispers, cupping Stiles’ face and running his thumb over Stiles’ cheekbones. “I wonder how far it goes?”

“Dude you’re straying into bad touch territory,” Stiles hisses back but doesn’t pull away. Peter considers this before leaning forward. 

Stiles is being kissed. There is actual kissing going on, Peter is nipping gently at his lips. Stiles’ hands have a mind of their own because he’s sure he didn’t give them permission to grip Peters’ hair or waist. Stiles moans and allows Peter access to his mouth. He submits under Peter.  
Peter is suddenly on top of Stiles, caging him in and biting and sucking marks onto Stiles’ neck. Permanent reminders for the morning. Peter intertwines his fingers with Stiles and uses the other hand to rip Stiles’ shirt open, so Peter can continue marking Stiles chest. Stiles would complain except that all blood has been diverted south.  


“I know you’ve been thinking about me Stiles,” Peter murmurs, licking Stiles’ skin, “I know you’ve watched me in Derek’s’ loft, been staring at my ass. It’s flattering really.” Stiles is beyond rational thought now. Peter tears Stiles’ jeans off, flinging them across the room along with Stiles’ boxers. “I know you’ve thought about what you’d like to do to me. I know what I want to do to you. Known from the moment we met.” Peters’ voice is like silk sheets of sin. Stiles can only moan. “Known that I’ve wanted to fuck you hard and fast. Make love to you under the moonlight. Have you experienced sex at the full moon? I want to hear you scream my name.”  


Peter takes the whole of Stiles cock into his mouth and sucks, holding Stiles in place. Stiles fists the sheets in his hands, gasping and moaning. Peter has skills; he knows exactly how to make Stiles come undone. Peter is tonguing the slit of Stiles dick, slowly. Painfully slow. It’s sweet torture. Peter speeds up, sucking hard and fast. Stiles groans loudly, hand moving to grip the back of Peters’ head. Stiles is chanting Peters’ name over and over, a loud sinful prayer. Then he’s coming and Peter takes it all. 

“Breathe Stiles,” Peter says, from somewhere below Stiles’ navel. Stiles waves his hand in Peter’s general direction. He’s totally blissed out. He can hear Peter chuckling. The bed dips and springs creek as Peter moves up the bed to lie next to Stiles. Peter throws a leg over Stiles, pulls him close and nuzzles his head. At some point Peter has lost clothing though Stiles can't exactly remember when. 

“Thank you for saving me,” Stiles mumbles, brain already shutting down for sleep.

“No problem. Couldn’t have you ripped apart before I’d heard you scream my name,” Peter replies, tracing delicate patterns in Stiles skin with his finger. Stiles would be witty at this point but he's exhausted. 

Stiles wakes up around midday, the sunlight hurts his eyes. He’s alone. He’s sure that last night was a pain fueled sex dream. At least he’s sure until Peter walks in, wearing only boxers and carrying a plate of pancakes. 

“Morning,” Peter chirps. “Well afternoon if you want to be technical.”

“I… What?” Stiles stammers. Peter smirks.

“Always so articulate, it must be a gift.” Peter climbs into bed, propping a pillow up to lean against. “Your kitchen is woefully under-stocked, pancakes was the extent of my abilities given the available materials.”

“You can cook?”

“Yes Stiles, cooking is one of my many talents.”

“I thought your talents were limited to sarcasm, scheming and slaughter,” Stiles replies, eyeing the pancakes reproachfully.

“Very droll,” Peter says, rolling a pancake and picking it up, “Now open wide.” Stiles snorts. Peter raises an eyebrow. “They’re not poisoned. Honestly Stiles I’ve only just begun to have fun with you, why would I kill you before I’ve found out how many different ways I can unravel you just with my hands and tongue.” Stiles’ jaw drops and Peter uses it as an opportunity to shove the pancake in. He chews, swallows and begrudgingly compliments Peter because they are good pancakes. Peter oozes smugness. 

“What is this?” Stiles asks, midway through his third pancake, “Are we dating? Is it just sex?” Peter sighs, running a thumb over Stiles wrist. 

“I’m not adverse to dating,” Peter says finally, “Scott has made it very clear that if I ever hurt you, I’ll be ripped limb from limb. Derek, Lydia, Kira and Isaac seconded that. In fact I believe that Lydia’s exact words were something along the lines of returning me to the hole I crawled out of.” Stiles processed this, chewing slowly. “However I do like you Stiles, you are enjoyable company, unlike my social stunted nephew and to be frank the others are sweet but boring.”

“So dating?” Stiles asks, interlacing their fingers together.

“Dating,” Peter decides, kissing Stiles and knocking the empty plate to the floor.


End file.
